The Fall: Crimson Worlds IX (21 page)

The lift stopped, and she stepped out onto the deck, walking slowly down the short corridor.  There was a door ahead with a Marine guard standing in front of it.  Admiral Garret’s quarters.  What the hell was happening?  Why was she going to see Garret with a gun in her pocket?  She let out a primal scream, but her mouth remained still, silent.

“I would like to see the admiral if he is available, Corporal.”  She heard her own words, and she struggled again to take control, to scream to the guard for help.  But she was still trapped.

“Yes, Commander.”  The Marine turned and punched a button to the side of the door, activating the AI.  “Commander Rourke is here, and she wishes to see the Admiral.”

Rourke still didn’t understand what was going on, but she was beginning to panic.  She tried again to break out, to control her body, to shout out, but to no avail.

The door opened a few seconds later.  “You may enter, Commander.”  The guard stepped aside.

She tried to hold her body back, but she moved forward anyway, stepping into Garret’s quarters.  Space was at a huge premium on ships, but a fleet admiral warranted a sizable suite.  The main room was about 8 meters long, with a small food station to one side.  The space was divided roughly in half, with a living area on one side and a large workspace on the other.  Garret sat at the desk, staring at his computer screen with a distant look on his face.

The admiral looked up and smiled.  “Hello, Tara.  What’s up?  Is anything wrong?”  He stood up slowly and started to walk around the desk.

“No, sir.  Nothing is wrong.”

She felt her hand slip into her pocket.  No, she thought.  Please, God, no!  She struggled, her mind throwing itself at the strange mental barrier.  She focused on her hand, trying to pull it out of her pocket away from the gun, but no amount of effort made a difference.

She tried to shout out a warning, but she couldn’t control her mouth either.  She could feel her lips pursed lightly together in a faint smile.

“Well what can I do for…”  Garret saw the pistol in her hand.  “What is this, Tara?  What are you…”

The first shot rang out, and Garret fell back over his desk, rolling to the side and falling off.  By the time he hit the ground, she’d shot him twice more.

Tara screamed, but not a sound escaped her lips.  She was overcome with the horror of what was happening, and she looked distantly through her eyes as her body walked around the desk, extending her arm toward Garret’s unmoving form.  She struggled and focused on pulling back, but to no avail.  She could feel her fingers tightening to fire again, shooting again and again.  Then the door slipped open and the Marine guard came running in.  His assault rifle was leveled at her, firing.

She felt the impact, more as a piece of information than pain, and her body pitched around, the gun falling from her outstretched hand.  She felt another shot, and another, and then she was back to normal, unrestrained and in control of herself.  Waves of pain swept through her stricken body.

She held her hands out in front of her, screaming, “No,” but the Marine fired again.  She felt the impact on her chest, like a sledgehammer, and she fell back, landing next to Garret, her hand falling back into the pool of blood spreading out from the admiral’s savaged body.

She heard the shouts of the Marine, his frantic calls for help, but it was all far away, dim and distant as she slid into darkness.

“Twenty seconds.”  Lieutenant Verason was counting down in five second increments, staring at his scope, watching as the enemy vessel made its way closer, coming around from behind the asteroid.

“Gunners, check your firing solutions.”  Jennings sat in the command chair, calmly watching the enemy approaching.  The two ships would be nose to nose in a few seconds, and within a minute after that, only one of them would be left.  “We’re only going to get one chance to win this.”

“Fifteen seconds.”

Jennings pulled his helmet down over his head, snapping it shut.  The other officers on the bridge had already sealed theirs.  The emergency suits they all wore would keep them alive if the hull lost its integrity.  The slim pressure suits weren’t good for extended use in the frigid vacuum of space, but they would give their wearers fifteen minutes or so to get to an escape pod.

“Ten seconds.”

Jennings tightened his safety straps and opened the valve on his supplemental oxygen.  If the hull was breached, his suit would automatically switch from outside air to the small tank.

“Five seconds.”

He took a deep breath and locked his eyes on the screen, watching the small oval move slowly out from behind the gray image of the asteroid.  Three, two, one…he counted down the last few seconds in his head.

The lights went out, leaving only the dim red hue of the battlestations lamps to light the bridge.  Jennings knew his gunners had fired immediately as the enemy ship came onto their targeting screens, and every spare joule of output from the reactor had been diverted into the laser blasts.

An instant later, the ship shook hard, and damage alarms went off in every compartment.  Jennings looked down at his screen, pulling up damage control reports.  Sand Devil had been hit.  It was bad, but Jennings could tell immediately it could have been worse.  His ship was hurt, but she was still in the fight.

“Damage assessment,” he snapped to Verason.

“Uncertain, Captain.”  He was frantically working the scope, but there were intermittent power failures in the system, and he was having trouble getting reliable data.  “It looks like we scored at least one solid hit, sir, but the scanners are damaged, and I can’t get a solid read.

“Engineering, more power to the guns.”  Jennings knew it would take about 30 seconds to recharge Sand Devil’s lasers, and he was afraid the next shot would be the last.

“Negative, sir.  We’ve already got all non-essential output routed to weapons.”

“Cut all systems ten second prior to firing.  Including life support.”  His people had their survival suits.  Twenty seconds without vital systems was tolerable.  And every joule pumped into to the lasers counted right now.

“Yes, Captain.”  The engineer’s voice was tentative, but Jennings knew he’d obey the command.

“Firing in ten seconds.”  The chief gunner’s voice echoed throughout the ship, just before the com shut down with every other system.  Only the battery-powered lamps remained on.  Even the workstations went dark.

Jennings counted off the seconds in his head.  He knew his gunners were pros, veterans with years of service.  But it was still hard sitting in near darkness, counting on someone else’s skill to save your life.  He was down to three on his countdown when the lights and computers came back on.  The extra power had shaved a couple seconds off the recharge time.

“Yes!” It was the junior gunner, and his shout blared from every speaker on the ship.  “Got him, sir.”

Jennings looked down at his own screen, just as he heard a muffled explosion, and Sand Devil lurched hard and went into a fast roll.  His straps held him in place, but it was a rough ride nevertheless.  He turned toward Verason, who was frantically working his board.  “Let’s get that roll stabilized, Lieutenant.”

“Working on it, sir.”

Jennings could feel the thrust as Verason fired positioning engines along carefully calculated vectors, slowing the ship’s vicious spin.  He was staring at his screen, trying to focus.  The enemy ship was gone.  He worked his controls, rewinding the scanner data, trying to see if the vessel had engaged its stealth systems and slipped away.

“Enemy target destroyed, Captain.”  The chief gunner was on the com, sounding enormously pleased.  “It was Fern, sir.”  The junior gunner had scored a direct hit, ripping through the guts of the stealth ship and starting a fatal chain reaction of secondary explosions.  But the dying vessel had gotten off one last blast before its reactor blew, and that shot had sliced into Sand Devil like a power saw.

“All hands to damage control.”  Jennings and his people had destroyed the enemy vessel.  Now they had to save their own ship from the same fate.

“I think I found a way in, Erik.”  It was Teller, and he was standing over what appeared to be a large metal hatch.  It wasn’t disguised or camouflaged in any way.  “I don’t think they expected anybody to come at them from the surface.”

Cain walked over slowly.  His mind was strangely calm, despite the fact that they’d just fought two platoons of enemy soldiers, and they were about to enter Stark’s final stronghold.

He’d lost three more of his people in the last fight.  Combat in a vacuum was unforgiving, and even a superficial wound could kill.  Marine armor had a sophisticated repair system for patching holes, but it was still difficult to fix a serious breech in the airless void of space.  The atmospheric control system increased internal pressure to compensate for the loss, buying time for the system to plug the hole, but if the breach was too big, there was nothing to be done.

Cleves had been killed by shot to the arm.  In a normal fight, it wouldn’t have even taken him out of the line, but it had come in at an angle, and it tore a large, jagged chunk from the elbow section of his armor.  His comrades tried desperately to get a patch on, even after his automated system had failed, but they couldn’t reseal his suit.  He lasted a little over four minutes, but finally he succumbed.

Cain felt differently than he normally did in combat, seemingly less affected by the loss of his men.  He was focused, all his thoughts directed to the final showdown with Gavin Stark, and nothing else mattered.  He’d already written the entire expedition off as lost.  This was a suicide mission, and he knew it.  He’d already mourned his men and made peace with his own fate.  All that mattered was killing Stark.

He found it oddly peaceful not to worry about an escape plan.  All his thoughts were directed to one goal.  His seething anger, the lust for vengeance that had taken control of him – all were aimed at one thing.  Killing Gavin Stark.

“Let’s blow this thing and go do what we came to do.”  Cain motioned to Breyer, who was carrying a large container.

The Marine walked up to the entrance and pulled a 25 centimeter sphere from the case.  He punched at a tiny set of controls on the small pad attached to the explosive and set it down next to the metal hatch.

“Two minutes,” he said as he began moving away, shuffling carefully but quickly toward a line of large rock outcroppings.

Cain and the others mirrored his movements, climbing methodically over the spine of 3-meter high rock wall and crouching down.

“Forty seconds.”  Hector was counting down every ten seconds.

Cain could feel a strange tingling throughout his body.  He’d been chasing Stark for more than half a year, and before that he’d sparred at long distance with the spymaster, back as far as the Third Frontier War.  Toward the end of that long conflict, Cain’s animosity toward his newly-assigned political officer almost landed him in the brig – or in front of a firing squad.  He hadn’t realized it at the time, but the dispute with the political officer was one of his first conflicts with Stark.  Or that Rafael Samuels, then the Commandant of the Corps, was Stark’s creature, a traitor who still hadn’t paid the price of his betrayal.

“Thirty seconds.”

Now it was time.  This would be the final reckoning.  He knew the odds would be long, as they always seemed to be.  Cain didn’t hold out much hope of escaping, but he was determined to kill Stark before he died.  Thoughts of his friends and comrades passed through his mind.  Sarah, of course, but also Augustus Garret, Isaac Merrick, Cate Gilson.  He’d been fortunate to encounter a number of good people in his life, and he was grateful to have known them all.  He’d taped a last message to Sarah and left it behind.  He hoped he’d managed to express what she meant to him.  He knew his death would be hard for her, but she was strong, a Marine.

“Twenty seconds.”

He felt another sadness, thinking of other friends lost.  Elias Holm had died in his arms, but he hadn’t been the first close friend Cain had lost.  Most of his original squadmates died in the Third Frontier War, and his oldest friend in the Corps, Will Thompson, had been killed leading the rebellion on Arcadia.  Terrence Compton had been trapped behind the Barrier, surrounded by a massive enemy fleet.  How long, he wondered, had he and his people survived before they were overwhelmed?

“Ten seconds.”

Then there was Jax.  If Elias Holm had been like a father to Cain, Jax had been his brother.  They met just before the Slaughter Pen, and they’d served together through Holm’s famous campaigns at the end of the war.  Cain still missed Jax, and his loss was a wound had that had never healed.  Sometimes he still expected the massive Marine to walk around the corner and start arguing with him about something stupid.  But he was gone, and his death had been Cain’s fault.  He’d been blinded by relentless rage and arrogance, and the robot warriors of the First Imperium defeated him in their first major battle.  Jax had warned Cain, but he hadn’t listened.  In the end, Jax held the line while Cain brought up reserves to stabilize the position.  But the last ditch defense cost Jax his life and, despite years of friends and comrades trying to convince him otherwise, Cain knew it had been his fault.

“Three seconds…two…one.”

There was a loud boom, and the ground shook.  A spray of shattered rock rained down everywhere, bouncing off the stones and fighting suits alike.  Cain slowly looked out from behind his covered position.  There was no sign of the hatch at all, just a large crater around the opening.  He climbed up and over the rock wall, reminding himself to take it slow and not inadvertently launch himself into space.  He shuffled through the rocky debris and looked down into the crater.

There was a passage below, now half covered with dust and debris.  They were in.

The control center shook violently, and Stark had to hang on to the armrests to avoid being thrown to the ground.  “What the hell was that?” he barked.  But he knew already.

“It was an explosive on the surface, sir.”  The officer was staring into his scope, watching the data stream in.  He froze for an instant then he turned toward Stark.  “Sir, it appears enemy troops have blasted open one of the surface hatches.”  There was confusion in his voice, and most of all, fear.

Fucking Marines, he thought to himself, decades of hatred and frustration rising from the depths of his mind.  He’d spent years developing the Shadow Legion clones, and he’d kidnapped real retired Marines to use as his models.  He had equipped them the same and removed most of their ability to feel fear through conditioning and genetic manipulation.  And they still couldn’t defeat the Marines without a massive numerical superiority.  What was it about those cursed warriors of the Corps?  What was their secret?

“All personnel are to move against the intruders at once.”  He paused.  “Anybody who kills one of those Marines stays alive.”  His voice was thick with frozen anger.

The officers around him stared back silently, intimidated by a threat they knew far too well could have been serious.  “Yes, sir.”  The comm officer answered with as much firmness as he could muster, which was moderate at best.

“And call down to the landing bay.  I want Spectre ready for takeoff in fifteen minutes, no excuses.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stark stared at his workstation, punching the keys to bring up a schematic of the base.  For all the facility’s recently revealed weaknesses, surveillance was not one of them.  Stark liked to know what his people were doing at all times, and every corridor and room was covered by multiple cameras and spy devices.

He zoomed to the area of the breach.  There were 7 small red dots moving down a corridor.  Seven!  He’d sent 80 men to the surface.  Perhaps his people had taken out most of the enemy force before they’d gained access.  That almost placated his rage until he realized the Martian Torch couldn’t carry more than 10 or 20 Marines, not with their full armor and equipment.  He hated the Marines with a raging passion, but he could help but admire their ability.  He’d repeatedly tried to destroy them, yet here they were, invading his ultra-secret base.  There weren’t enough of them to prevail, but he was amazed they’d gotten so close.

He could see a series of small black icons moving down a hallway perpendicular to the Marines’ corridor.  They were his people, closing on the enemy, using the same tracking data he was.

Hopefully, his soldiers would perform better than the unfortunates on the surface.  He couldn’t imagine he didn’t have enough manpower left to overcome 7 Marines.  But he wasn’t going to take any chances.  He punched a long series of codes into his workstation, activating a secret directive known only to him.  In 30 minutes, the station’s reactor would go critical.  And that would be the end of the Marines.